


Love Me Two Times

by Kangofu_CB



Series: Tell Me That It's All For Me [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Crymaxer, Just Sex, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Road trip through time, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, but no one fuck themselves or whatever, filthy filthy sex, this is a Clint Barton sandwich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 19:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19034392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Love me two times babeLove me twice todayLove me two times babeJust I'm goin' awayDr. Strange dumps Clint and Bucky in 1941 New York, and there's really only one place they can lay low until someone figures out how to get them back.





	Love Me Two Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1000_directions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/gifts).



> This is completely, entirely, 110% Steph's fault. She asked for it on Tumblr, and then she and like 27 other people encouraged it, and I hope you're all FUCKING HAPPY because this is 10k words I should have spent on one of my obligations but here we are. She requested the following: "40s Bucky being fascinated by modern Bucky's arm, Size difference between them bc 40s Bucky is skinnier (welterweight champion!!) and modern Bucky is thicc, Clint being just devoured and crying obviously, Where Clint will be middle of a Bucky sandwich, Bodies being appreciated, gentle touches, crying, the arm being appreciated, And Clint being destroyed to pieces the end." ---- sweet pea I'm pretty sure I hit every single note <3
> 
> Title taken from a song of the same name by The Doors
> 
>  
> 
> Also this fic fills my Clint Barton Bingo prompt for 'Time Travel' which, frankly, is a fucking miracle to be honest, because I never seem to make these one shots fit those prompts.

“What the shit?” Clint yelps, stumbling as he hits the ground.  Bucky grunts nearby, both of them rolling to standing about as soon as they land, looking around for a sitrep.

 

“What the _fuck_?” he says, blinking in disbelief.

 

“C’mon,” Bucky replies, snagging him by the shirtsleeve and pulling him into a dirty alley nearby.  “We’re gonna stick out like sore thumbs around here if we don’t move quick.”

 

‘Around here’ is, if Clint isn’t mistaken, New York.  But it’s New York of like a hundred years ago or some shit, judging by the women in dresses and the men in suspenders and the weird smell of hazy garbage on the air.  

 

“Goddamn Dr. Strange,” Clint mutters, trudging behind Bucky, dodging into quiet corners and behind stairwells as well as or better than Bucky, who’s stomping through the back alleys like he knows exactly where he was going.

 

And hell, maybe he does.  

 

“I was gonna ask where are we, but I think the better question is when,” Clint says, after a minute, and Bucky grunts.

 

Clint pulls up short, gripping Bucky’s elbow and pulling him in close.  “Babe. What’s wrong?”

 

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his eyes dart around, not frightened exactly, but watchful.  “We can’t do that here. C’mon. We gotta get some new clothes and then I think I know someplace we can hole up until Strange brings us back.  Stevie won’t let him leave us behind for long.”

 

Clint huffs.  Strange does whatever the fuck he damn well pleases, as far as Clint can tell, but sure, if that makes Bucky feel better.

 

It’s a maze of alleyways after that, Clint keeping up with Bucky’s purposeful stride with ease, even though he was more lost to start with than he’d ever been in his life.  He manages to snag a newspaper when the paperboy isn’t paying attention, mostly just to glance at the date across the top.

 

**_Borealis Snarls Radios, Wires_ **

_19 Sept 1941_

_New York Daily Mirror_

 

“Oh shit,” he mutters under his breath.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, gruff and out of sorts.  “Oh shit.”

 

“Okay,” Clint says, rolling the newspaper up and stuffing it in his back pocket.  “What’s the first rule of time travel?”

 

“Don’t do it?” Bucky offers sardonically.  They’re trailing through a narrow alley between buildings, and there’s laundry hung on lines fucking _everywhere_.  Bucky is snagging things as they go - a shirt here, trousers there - moving quickly and furtively, despite the bright sunshine.  Clint thinks about helping - he’s pinched a few pockets in his time, and larger-than-petty thievery isn’t exactly missing from his resume either - but he’s got no idea what to grab and what not, not in this timeline, so he keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets and tries to look unobtrusive.

 

“The first rule of time travel is don’t fuck anything up.   Actually the first rule of time travel is don’t date your mother.”

 

Bucky turns to give him an incredulous look.

 

“Right, remind me, we’re watching _Back to the Future_ when we get back.  Or forward. Whatever.  Basically we just have to not fuck up the timeline for… like…. However long we’re here.”

 

“Pretty sure that’s not how time travel works,” Bucky tells him, cutting behind a crumbling brick and mason tenement.  “Here. Put these on.” He hands Clint a pile of clothes, fresh off the washline and dried in the Brooklyn sunshine. Clint leaves his undershirt and boxers on, but he scrabbles into the trousers and shirt without complaint, surprised to find they fit okay, and glares dubiously at the suspenders.  He glances down at his sneakers and then back up at Bucky, who shrugs.

 

“Shoes’re hard to come by,” is all he says, and then they’re off again, their old clothes bundled up under their arms.  

 

Bucky is careful to keep his metal prosthetic - the fancy new Wakandan one, of which Clint is a big fan - hidden under both his sleeve and the bundle of modern clothing in his arms.  Clint keeps following him, through what seems like an endless maze of streets. Eventually, though, they end up in another, equally run-down tenement, up a couple of flights of stairs, and then Bucky is lifting a broken brick and pulling out a key.  He slips it into the door, jiggling the knob a certain way, and then they’re inside a tiny, box-like apartment.

 

“Oh, hell,” Clint says, taking in the space.  It’s almost a studio, except there’s clearly a door that leads to a bedroom, drafty as all hell, and the furniture looks like it’s been rescued from a dump.  It’s all clean though, or as clean as anything is in a tenement in the 1930s, and there’s bits of art tacked to the walls in a style Clint immediately recognizes. “This is your place, huh?”

 

“No,” Bucky bites out.  “It’s… it was Stevie’s place, after his ma died.  I moved in not long after, helped out with things.  Think I was probably living here by now. Am living here.  Fuck this is confusing.” He collapses onto the couch, and it makes an alarming creaking sound that makes him freeze.  

 

Clint can’t help the snicker that escapes at Bucky’s expression.  

 

“Where are you right now?” he asks.  It’s a little past mid-day, so far as Clint can tell, and it’s hot as balls, even inside the building.  God he misses modern AC already.

 

“Classes,”  Bucky grunts.  He squints the way he gets when he’s trying to focus on some distant memory.  Sometimes it comes to him, and sometimes it doesn’t, and after a moment he shakes his head.  “Class, I think. Art maybe? Steve’s got a job he stays after for - makin’ adverts, somethin’.  He’ll be home late.”

 

Clint wonders if Bucky realizes he hasn’t mentioned when his other self will be home.  

 

“What about you?” Clint says, when the silence stretches out and he realizes Bucky hasn’t continued.

 

“Soon,” Bucky says.  “I can’t- I’m not sure.”  He shrugs kinda helpless. “I don’t got a better idea where we can go for now.”

 

Clint nods.  “Best we can do is blend in, I figure.  If we’re here too long we can get some kind of job, couple of able-bodied guys like us.”

 

Bucky snorts.  “We can get drafted, more like.”  He sounds bitter as hell.

 

Clint rolls his eyes.  “We don’t even got any identification, we can’t be drafted.  And anyway, I’m deaf and you’re an amputee. No one’s gonna draft us.  Jesus fuck.”

 

Bucky blinks up at him like he’s forgot this isn’t the present, like he’s forgot they don’t really exist here, and then he cracks a grin.  “You’re right. Coupla 4F’ers. I forgot.” He scrubs a hand across his face, then grimaces. “I should shave. Cut my hair.”

 

Clint eyes the long strands of Bucky’s hair, escaping from the low tail he’d pulled it into that morning, dubiously.  “You know how to cut hair?”

 

“Useta cut Stevie’s,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure.  Clint wonders if he knows how much Brooklyn is creeping into his tone right now, and shivers a little.  He’s always liked that accent, and it usually comes out to play in bed, not so much in public. Hearing it now is doing funny things to his insides.  It’s probably not the best time for a boner, though, so he tries to shove the feeling away.

 

“I can cut it,” Clint tells him.  “I cut Barney’s, when we were kids.  Can’t be much harder.”

 

Five minutes later they’re set up in the kitchen, a kettle of hot water on the stove and Clint’s newspaper spread out on the floor.  Clint is running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, a little reverential. He _likes_ Bucky’s hair, if he’s honest.  Likes being able to grab hold of it mostly, yank it around a little.  Likes how it tickles his skin when they’re in bed.

 

“Stop thinkin’ about how you like pullin’ my hair and start cuttin’,” Bucky tells him, amusement clear in his voice.  “We can’t hang around here with me lookin’ like this.”

 

“Bossy,” Clint tells him, fond, and starts snipping.  Dry hair isn’t the best to cut, but there’s no shower in the apartment - no bathroom at all that isn’t shared - so getting in the shower isn’t an option.  Clint drapes his discarded flannel shirt from the goddamn future around Bucky’s shoulders to keep the hair off his neck and goes to town.

 

In the end it’s an approximation of what Barney’s hair used to look like.  It’d do better with some clippers around the ears, but it’s 19 _fucking_ 41, and that’s not exactly an option, so Clint does the best he can.  Bucky runs his fingers through it thoughtfully. There’s no mirror in the apartment either, a fact which Clint can’t decide if he’s grateful for.

 

“It looks good,” Clint tells him, unnecessarily.   And it does. It’s a real good look, actually, short but with the scruff, mature in a way that his hipster hobo look hadn’t been, much as Clint had liked that too.  Clint likes it a little too much, if he’s honest.

 

Then Bucky pulls out a straight razor he’d confiscated from a drawer in the miniscule bedroom with its two rickety bedsteads and beat up dresser.  

 

“You’re not seriously going to shave yourself blind?” Clint says, aghast.

 

Bucky shrugs.  “Can’t exactly borrow the washroom.  Tryin’ to keep outta sight. People in this building know me, they’re gonna notice I’ve aged ten years and grown a beard since this morning.”

 

Clint has never used a straight razor for anything but slitting throats but-

 

He sighs.  “Gimme that before you cut your lips off.”

 

The razor gets handed off with a slight smirk that makes Clint think Bucky planned the whole thing, and then he gets a cloth and soaks it in hot water before draping it over Bucky’s face where it can soften the bristles of his scruff.   Clint’s seen Bucky clean-shaven a handful of times, maybe, since they started dating each other, but he’s never seen him with short hair, and this is a whole-ass _experience_ he’s about to have.  He leans over, presses his lips against Bucky’s forehead, gentle.  

 

Bucky closes his eyes, sighs into the contact.

 

When the cloth is cooled off, Clint drops it in the bowl of hot water he’d poured out of the kettle and sets to work, carefully scraping shaving soap and facial hair off of Bucky’s face in short, even strokes.  Bucky tilts his head obligingly, like this is a normal thing they do, like he lets Clint at his face with a razor-sharp blade all the time.

 

The display of trust is a little bit humbling.  

 

Clint swallows past the squeeze of emotion in his throat and just keeps working in silence, rinsing the blade every so often, until Bucky’s face is smooth as a baby’s bottom and he looks-

 

Fuck he looks good.  Looks younger, less hardened.  Jesus, no wonder he doesn’t shave and cut his hair, he looks like a goddamn kid.

 

Dragging a thumb along his jawline, Clint can feel the catch of his callouses against baby-soft skin.

 

Bucky turns into the touch, presses his lips against Clint’s palm.  

 

“Nice face,” Clint tells him, trying to smirk, trying to push back the heaviness of the moment.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, and the smile turns wicked and _there_ \- there’s the ladykiller from the 40s.  Which is where - when - they currently are.  “You wanna see how it feels between your thighs?”

 

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, and then he folds the razor, tucking it away in his pocket like a bad habit, and climbs into Bucky’s lap, knocking the shirt off his shoulders and tossing the damp cloth in the bowl without looking.  “Fuck yes,” he says again, and leans in for a proper kiss, half filth and all tongue.

 

Clint’s just getting comfortable on Bucky’s thighs - _fuck_ those thighs - when they both hear the sound of the key being reinserted in the lock, and then the knob is jingling just the same way it did when Bucky let them in the apartment.  Clint groans, but he’s already moving, already swinging his legs off of Bucky’s lap and taking up a defensive position behind him, where he can see the door.

 

Bucky doesn’t move.  Just lounges indolently in the chair, arms crossed and chin tilted.

 

Bucky walks in the front door of the apartment.

 

And Clint takes back what he said about _his_ Bucky looking young.  Cutting his hair and shaving his face had taken some of the hard edge off of him, but not the passage of time.   _This_ Bucky looks like-

 

“Babe, you were a fuckin’ twink.” Clint says, unable to help himself.

 

His Bucky snorts in amusement.  “Yeah,” he drawls. “Looks like it.”

 

Bucky-of-the-past is smaller than Clint’s Bucky.  Not shorter, just less broad, more lithe. Smooth-shaven with his hair carefully combed, and _young_.  Not so much in years but in breadth of experience.  He’s missing the lines of time and pain and sacrifice that Clint’s Bucky has whether he’s covered in scruff or not.  He’s missing the weight of seventy years of horror.

 

He’s still pretty though.  

 

Clint lets his eyes trail over him thoughtfully, where he stands frozen in the doorway, looking at the two of them in bewilderment.

 

“Shut the door, punk,” Bucky says to his past self, “you’ll let flies in.”

 

Wordlessly, past-Bucky shuts the door, still gaping.

 

“What the hell?” he finally manages, dropping a bag at his feet and running a hand through his hair, mussing all the tidiness up.

 

Clint is struck by the sudden urge to muss it even further.  Look, Clint’s got a type, okay, and apparently that type is Bucky fuckin’ Barnes, in whatever iteration.  He’s objectively admitted that even full on murder-bot Winter Soldier Bucky was hot - did you even _see_ the footage of him walking across the roof of that car? - so why should young, unshattered Bucky be any different?

 

He must make a noise, because Bucky cuts a glance at him - fucking supersoldier enhanced hearing - and smirks a little.  

 

“Time travel,” Bucky - and Clint has gotta come up with some kinda way to think of them or something to call the two of them to differentiate, because this isn’t confusing _at all_ \- tells his younger self, casual as all hell.

 

“Bullshit,” the other Bucky says, but he looks uncertain.

 

Clint’s Bucky shrugs.  “You gotta better explanation?”  He holds up his left hand, twisting it back and forth in the muted light of the apartment.  

 

Sighing, Clint reaches for the second chair in the kitchen and spins it around until he’s straddling it, his chin resting on his arms.  His Bucky is obviously having a good time with this, but it’s not like Clint has a better idea for explaining to the kid why they’re there.  Bucky knows himself better than Clint does, after all.

 

“Holy shit,” past-Bucky - fuck it, Clint’s gonna go back to thinking of his Bucky as Barnes, because that’s an easy transition.  That’s what he calls him on comms on missions, he can call him Barnes. “Holy shit, is that Stark Tech?”

 

“ _That’s_ your question?” Clint blurts out, unable to help himself.  “We show up and say we’re from the future and you wanna know if Stark made his arm?”

 

Barnes snorts, and Bucky flushes a little.  

 

“It’s not Stark tech,” Barnes says, tone colored a little with amusement, “it’s better.”

 

“Don’t let Tony hear you say that,” Clint mutters, then settles back onto his chair, a little disgruntled.  “When’s Steve comin’ home?” he asks, because it’s obvious Barnes isn’t going to.

 

“Late,” Bucky says, dazed.  “He’s got another class and then he says he’s got a date with-”

 

“Annie Castillo,” Barnes answers for him, and Clint gets a little bit of whiplash looking between them.  Even Barnes looks a bit off as he says it, like it’s just now come to him, and he chews on his lip absently, deep in thought.  “Huh,” he says after a minute. “That’s new.”

 

Clint arches an eyebrow, silent question on his face, but Barnes just shakes his head.  

 

“How’d you get so big?” Bucky asks, outta nowhere, still staring Barnes over and glancing at Clint under his lashes, all kinds of curious.

 

Clint knows that look, and he smirks at him, his best kinda smile, like he’s got a secret and he’s willing to share it.

 

Barnes knows it too, cause he shoots Clint an amused glance, the kind they usually share over cheating at cards at Sam’s expense.  

 

“Ate my vegetables,” Barnes tells him, drawls really.  “You got any other questions you want answered?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, jerking his head in Clint’s direction.  “Who’s he?”

 

“Partner,” Barnes says, at the same time Clint says “Boyfriend,” and there’s a moment of silence before Barnes sighs heavily, giving Clint the most disappointed look he can manage.

 

Natasha and Steve have done better a thousand times over, so Clint’s not fazed.  He just shrugs. What had Barnes expected him to say?

 

“Best guy,” Barnes settles on, still looking at Clint, something unreadable on his face, and then he turns back to Bucky.  “The future’s a whole different type-a place for that.”

 

“I’m Clint,” Clint offers, because he hasn’t been introduced, and it’s lopsided how much he knows about Bucky and how much Bucky doesn’t know about him. Unfair in a way Clint’s not totally comfortable with.

 

Bucky’s giving Clint something more than a considering look now, something like Clint’s being evaluated, being measured against some standard Clint’s not sure of, and Clint makes a mental note to ask Barnes about it later.  He wonders if this era’s Bucky had batted for both teams, too. He stretches, long and tall, twisting his spine until it cracks and the muscles in his back unclench.

 

Bucky stares a beat too long, his tongue flashes over his bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth in a move so familiar it sends a punch of arousal into Clint’s gut.

 

Guess that answers his question, then.  

 

Clint stands up, starts tidying the mess they’ve made of the kitchen, dumping the bowl of water down the sink and scooping up the newspaper, rolling it carefully so that the hair in it stays contained as Clint shoves it into the trash can.  He pulls the razor out of his pocket, passes it off to Bucky nonchalantly, like it’s not obvious they’ve been trolling about the place since they arrived. He tucks his chair back up under the table and leans against it, hands in his pocket as Bucky and Barnes stare at one another.

 

“How long are you gonna be here?” Bucky asks, abruptly, and Clint grins at him.

 

“Finally, a relevant question,” Barnes grouses, but he’s got the hint of a smile on his face too, like he’s proud of himself or something.

 

“Dunno,” Clint shrugs.  “Depends on what they figure out on the other end, I guess.  We just need to lay low for a bit.”

 

Bucky’s back to chewing on his lip, and it’s giving Clint what Steve would probably call ‘impure thoughts’ and Barnes is smirking at him without even looking and honestly it’s not even a little bit fair.  Clint’s tapping his foot on the ground in some insistent, rhythmless pattern, anxiety eating at him for reasons he can’t quite articulate.

 

Well, actually, he probably can articulate them.  They’re stuck in the past, they don’t know for how long, his hearing aids might not last out the amount of time they’re there, to say nothing of the concerns for finding work, feeding themselves, and not attracting undue attention either for not being from around here or for being queer as hell.  

 

Long story short, Clint wants to go home.

 

He misses his dog.

 

And his very large bed.

 

His very large bed where he fits quite nicely with his very large supersoldier.  

 

Clint sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

 

Barnes gets up, seems to take pity on him, because he reaches out, taking Clint’s hand off of his face and holding it loosely while he uses his metal fingers to rub soothing circles along Clint’s neck and spine, massaging the base of his skull and offsetting the impending headache.  

 

“Thanks,” Clint mumbles, after a minute or two.  “Sorry.”

 

“S’not your fault,” Buck - _Barnes_ , god Clint is never gonna get past this - tells him.  

 

“No, I know.”  For once, it really wasn’t Clint’s fault.

 

Bucky - _Barnes_ \- is leaning his forehead against Clint’s, still trailing fingers up and down his spine.

 

“You think Nat has beat Strange up yet?” Clint asks, aiming for a laugh, but sounding a little miserable.

 

“Nah,” Barnes tells him, his breath ghosting across Clint’s cheek. “She’ll wait til he brings us back and then she’ll break his pinky fingers.  Maybe stab him a little bit.”

 

“I love her,” Clint sighs.  “She’s the best.”

 

Barnes snorts.  “What’m I, chopped liver?”

 

“You’re my favorite,” Clint tells him.

 

A throat clears, somewhere off to the left, and Clint glances up to find Bucky watching them, a little awkward, a little flushed. Barnes doesn’t even move, just keeps himself pressed up close to Clint, a hand splayed posessively at the base of his spine.

 

“You can stay here,” Bucky tells them, shuffling.  “But you gotta explain this shit to Steve, I’m sure as hell not gonna.”

 

Barnes snorts.  “Steve’s not gonna be home tonight,” he tells the room at large, and Clint gives a startled bark of laughter.

 

“I knew it- I knew that fucker was lying to me when he said-”

 

Barnes shuts Clint up the second best way he knows how - with his mouth.  Once he’s successfully distracted Clint from the time Steve had tried to demur during truth or dare, he eases back, running a thumb across Clint’s lower lip.  “You talk too fuckin’ much,” he growls.

 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, a little bit breathless.  “But you can shut me up.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Barnes takes a step back, putting some distance between them.  It’s distance Clint doesn’t like, but he understands. Where the fuck are they even gonna _sleep_ tonight, much less-

 

“You know Steve?” Bucky says, turning a narrowed gaze on Clint.

 

Well, fuck.

 

Bucky’d obviously missed it the first time Clint brought him up, but he hasn’t missed a second reference Clint’s made to Steve.

 

Barnes shoots him a look like _you can get yourself out of this_ that seems more at home on Nat’s face than his, but Clint’s gonna do it anyway.  

 

“Sure,” he says, light, like it’s easy.  “Everybody knows Steve. Bossy asshole, likes to start fights.”

 

Bucky quirks a little grin, relaxes a little around the edges.  “Yeah, sounds like Stevie.”

 

“I’m gonna call him that,” Clint announces, grinning.  “He’ll hate it.”

 

Barnes huffs a laugh.  “Yeah, he fuckin’ _will_ ,” Barnes tells Clint, but Clint just grins back at him, pleased with himself.  By god if he’s got to go back to the past, he’s at least gonna get something out of it, and that something is a stupid nickname for Steve.  

 

“Alright,” Clint says, leveraging himself off the kitchen table, “what’s for dinner?”

 

Bucky gets a shifty look on his face and Clint shoots Barnes a questioning glance.  

 

 _Money is a problem_ Barnes signs, and Clint rolls his shoulders.  This, he can work with.

 

 _I’ll go lighten some pockets, get something for us_ he signs back, grinning a little.  Barnes rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Of the two of them, Clint’s the better pickpocket and he’s not got an advanced prosthetic to hide.

 

He just needs to not get lost, is all.

 

**

 

Pickpocketing is still just as simple as it had been when Clint was a kid, and he comes back to the apartment with enough food from the corner grocer to feed a supersoldier and three grown men for a few days at least.  There’d been enough people with unscuffed shoes and well-tailored suits that Clint hadn’t felt bad about lightening their wallets a little bit, and now he won’t feel bad about eating Steve and Bucky out of house and home either.  The grocer was different from what he was used to, but he thinks he did alright.

 

He’s done more than alright, judging by the wide-eyed looks Bucky shoots him as they unload the bags into the icebox and the pantry, and Barnes sidles up to the little stove in the kitchen like he belongs there, easy as you please.

 

Not that Barnes doesn’t do most of the cooking around the place when they’re back home in the future - Clint does alright heating up pizza and making coffee but that’s about it.  

 

Clint and Bucky settle on the couch, a little awkward, while Barnes whips up something that smells like it oughta be comin’ out of Tony’s gourmet kitchen, but that might be Clint’s empty stomach talking.  

 

“So,” Clint says, turning to Bucky from where he’s stretched out in the corner of the sofa, lounging with his sleeves rolled up and his collar undone, “tell me about you.”

 

Bucky waves at Barnes in the kitchen, who’s pretending he can’t hear every word they’re saying.  “You seem like you know me pretty well.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, eyeing Barnes appreciatively.  “In the biblical sense, sure.” He grins at Bucky as he squirms.  “This is different.”

 

“Clint,” Barnes calls from the kitchen, and Clint looks up to meet his gaze.  “ _You wanna show the kid a good time?”_ Barnes asks him, Russian rolling off his tongue, all guttural vowels and suggestive as hell.

 

 _“You remember this?”_ Clint asks, surprised.

 

 _“The longer I’m here the more it comes back,”_ Barnes tells him, turning back to the stove.

 

And that-

 

That’s interesting.

 

Clint turns back to Bucky, who looks intrigued and confused and interested all at once.  

 

 _“How good a time?”_ Clint asks, not taking his eyes off Bucky.

 

 _“Very good,”_ Barnes reassures him, shaking something that’s sizzling in a pan.  

 

Clint hums thoughtfully.  

 

“What language is that?” Bucky asks, propping his chin on his hand in a gesture Clint’s never seen in his Bucky - inquisitive and unguarded - and Clint can see the appeal of it, sure.  

 

“Russian,” Clint tells him, still considering.  

 

“I speak Russian?”

 

“You will.”  Clint keeps his face carefully blank.  “You speak a lot of languages.”

 

Barnes rattles something off in Pashto that not even Clint catches, but it startles him into a laugh.  It sounds rude, whatever it is, rough enough that Clint figures it was more than a little suggestive.

 

“And I cook,” Bucky says, sounding wary about it.  “Steve usually does the cooking.”

 

Clint rears back in horror.  “Jesus, Steve _boils_ everything.”

 

Bucky bursts into laughter, the kind of unfettered humor that Clint has almost never seen in his Bucky, a combination of surprise and amusement and _joy_ that lights his face up.  Clint feels his breath catch in his throat, watching him, as the laughter spills out and _jesus_ , Clint wants to taste it.

 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, the words falling out of his mouth before he has a chance to think about them once, much less twice.

 

Bucky’s laughter halts abruptly, but his mouth is curled around the edges, his eyes are crinkled with good humor still.  “I get the impression you’ve kissed me plenty.”

 

“No,” Clint says, soft, as he edges closer on the sofa, “no, I don’t think I have.”

 

Bucky holds himself still, watching Clint, a little bit unsure, a little bit cautious, but not unwilling.  

 

Clint presses himself into Bucky’s space, like he would an easily-startled animal, moving slow and confident, but not sudden, and presses his mouth to Bucky’s.  It’s almost - but not quite - the same. Bucky’s mouth is softer, lax against his, like he’s new at this, and something about it makes Clint a little bit crazy.

 

He knows what _his_ Bucky likes, but he doesn’t know anything at all about what _this_ Bucky likes.  But, damn, does he ever want to.  He shifts closer, moving his mouth against Bucky and it’s like a switch gets flipped and Bucky is suddenly with the program, tilting his head so that their mouths line up better and pressing a hesitant hand to Clint’s shoulder.  It’s a kind of first kiss - though Clint can tell it’s not _the_ first kiss Bucky’s ever had - but it’s got that same tentativeness to it, that sense of learning one another that Clint has always liked, even though it’s been replaced by a comforting familiarity now.  

 

Clint flicks his tongue out, runs it along Bucky’s lower lip before sucking it into his mouth, biting down gently.  

 

Bucky makes a sound, something low, that sets Clint’s blood on fire.

 

He scoots even closer, until he’s pressed against Bucky’s chest - so different from what he’s used to, but the same in some undefinable way - and then Bucky’s arms are around his shoulders and he’s giving as good as he’s getting, his mouth moving in tandem with Clint’s.  

 

“Fuck,” Clint says, breaking away to stare down at him.  “Guess that’s not a new skill, then.”

 

Bucky gives him a cocky smirk and it’s so like the look his Bucky has sometimes that Clint has to push back in, fit their mouths together again.  

 

He’s got his hand halfway up Bucky’s shirt, clutching at the warm, bare skin there, and Bucky’s hand bunched in the back of his undershirt when the sound of a chair scraping across the floor catches his attention.

 

“Don’t mind me,” Barnes drawls, from where he’s sprawled out on a kitchen chair in his undershirt, the Wakandan arm on full display and his pants stretched tight over his thighs.  “I’m just enjoyin’ the show.”

 

“You’re an asshole,” Clint informs him, “but at least you’re pretty.”

 

“I’m really not,” Barnes says, calmly, but he’s a little pink around the edges.

 

“You really are,” Clint assures him, and then he’s leaning back down, tracing his mouth over Bucky’s smooth jawline - the same jawline, like it’s the only thing about him that hasn’t changed a bit and maybe that’s why Hydra had put that mask on him all those years.

 

Clint shies away from the thought.  That’s not what this is about, and it’s not a comparison either.  Buck- Barnes had told him to show the guy a good time, and by god, Clint was going to show him the time of his fuckin’ life.

 

Bucky’s watching their exchange with narrowed, contemplative eyes, but he lets Clint kiss him some more, let’s him wedge a thigh between his legs until he’s arching up for it, panting into Clint’s mouth and writhing underneath him.  

 

“You’re real pretty too,” Clint tells him, just to watch him blush, something hot and blooming that extends from his chest to his face.  

 

“Jesus,” Bucky says, his chest heaving, “did you come from the future just to seduce me and tell me I’m pretty?”

 

“No,” Clint says, rocking their hips together just enough, “that’s just a bonus.”

 

“Fuckin’ christ,” Bucky manages, as Clint works his way across the exposed skin of his collarbones and drags his fingers down the bare skin of Bucky’s chest under his shirt.  His skin is smooth and sensitive, lacking even the few scars that Barnes has, most of which are concentrated around the place where the arm is grafted to his body. Even when Shuri replaced it, including the socket, Wakandan technology couldn’t get rid of all the scar tissue, so Barnes still has a fair amount of old white scarring near the joint.

 

Bucky has none of that.  He’s smooth, pale skin from shoulders to hips, and he’s responsive as _fuck_ , arching into Clint’s touch like he’s never been touched before and-

 

Clint shoots Barnes a narrow-eyed look, asking a silent question with his eyebrows, and gets back a blank face that might as well be an admission.  

 

 _Fuck_ this is not what Clint thought he was signing up for, but he can’t deny the appeal.

 

“There a bed in this place?” Clint asks, when he’s got Bucky’s shirt rucked up under his armpits and his mouth pressed to his chest, leaving purpling bruises along his ribcage. They can at least use a goddamn bed, if they can’t show the guy some romance.

 

“There’s two,” Bucky tells him, breathless.

 

“We only need the one,” Clint says, mouth somewhere around Bucky’s navel and heading south.  

 

Barnes makes a protesting little noise that makes Clint grin against Bucky’s bare skin.  

 

“Unless you’re planning to join us, you fuckin’ creeper,” Clint tells him, pressing his teeth into Bucky’s hip.

 

“I could be persuaded,” Barnes rumbles, and then he’s coasting his hands along Clint’s back, the vibranium arm only slightly cooler than his right hand, sliding them under Clint’s shirt and along his spine.  Clint shivers, pressing his forehead against Bucky’s thigh as he suddenly realizes he’s about to be in the middle of a fantasy hotter than the surface of the goddamn _sun_.

 

Barnes’ hand threads into his hair and tugs, forcing a desperate, whimpering noise from Clint’s throat as he’s pulled upwards onto his knees, straddling Bucky’s lap and leaning into Barnes’ chest.

 

“Oh fuck,” Clint breathes, already fraying at the seams, because Barnes knows exactly how to take him apart piece by piece.  

 

“What do you think?” Barnes asks, and it takes Clint a long, syrupy moment to realize the question is directed at Bucky and not him.  “You wanna watch him fall apart?”

 

Clint drags his eyes open to look down at the man spread out below him, clothes askew and hair a mess, who’s watching him and Barnes with dark eyes.  He licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says, low and breathless but also sure of himself. “Yeah, I do.”

 

Clint groans.

 

They’re gonna be the death of him.

 

“Where’re my pants?” he asks, feeling loose and pliable already.

 

“You’re wearing pants, idiot,” Barnes tells him fondly.

 

“No, no, my other pants.”

 

Barnes freezes, and then huffs a gentle laugh.  “You got lube in your pocket Barton?” he asks, crawling off the couch and letting Clint go to collapse over Bucky.  He immediately starts mouthing at his chest again, wrapping his teeth around Bucky’s left nipple and biting down just hard enough to get his attention.  

 

“And what if I do?” he asks, unconcerned.

 

“That’d earn you the superhero of the week award,” Barnes informs him, digging through Clint’s jeans pockets where they’d left their clothes piled on one of the chairs.  

 

“Sweet,” Clint says, moving to pay attention to Bucky’s right nipple, as Bucky’s hands find their way into his hair, gripping tightly.  Clint moans at the sensation, dragging his tongue over the hardened nub. Bucky gives an echoing moan, and Clint wonders again just how much of this is all brand new for him.

 

Wonders, but doesn’t ask.

 

He doesn’t have to feel guilty if he doesn’t know, and _his_ Bucky, the one whose memories of this whole adventure are making themselves known, isn’t objecting, so Clint’s gonna roll with it.

 

Barnes makes a noise of discovery and then strides back over to the couch, that confident strut that does Clint in _every single time._ “Cmon,” he says, reaching for the both of them, “let’s take this some place marginally more comfortable.”  

 

Clint stands up obediently, pulling Bucky with him and plastering their bodies together.  Everything else might be different, but Bucky is still just short enough for Clint to rest his chin on top of his head, to his unending delight.  

 

“‘M not used to being the short one,” Bucky grumbles, but makes no move to dislodge Clint.

 

“Better get used to it,” Clint says, cheerful. “You’re not even a little bit the tallest in the future.”

 

Barnes maneuvers them down the hall into the tiny bedroom, where there are, as promised, two beds.

 

Two small beds that Clint isn’t entirely confident won’t break if you put three grown men in either one of them.  Clint glances between the beds, Barnes, and Bucky, and tries to work out the logistics.

 

Barnes rolls his eyes and then drags both mattresses off their frames on onto the floor and oh, why hadn’t Clint thought of that?  He even goes so far as to lift the frames and move both of them as far out as possible, so there’s no chance anyone is gonna bang their shin on a brass bedstead.  

 

Bucky is watching him, wide-eyed, and Clint wonders how much the frames weigh.  They look sturdy, and they’re probably solid brass so…

 

“Show off,” Clint tells Barnes, rolling his eyes, and Barnes at least has the sense to look a little bit sheepish about it.  

 

Clint doesn’t say anything else though, he just tumbles Bucky down onto the now-larger bed, rolling them so he ends up underneath, letting Bucky rest his weight on Clint’s thighs and that is, yeah, so fuckin’ good.  Clint pulls him down into another kiss, sliding his hands under Bucky’s shirt and pushing it up and over his head so that he’s naked from the waist up. The skin that felt so smooth under Clint’s calloused palms looks just as unblemished in the warm evening sun that’s peeking through the curtained windows.  It’s washing him in shades of gold, and Clint can see he’s slimmer than Barnes, sure, but still muscled from work or workouts, biceps and abs attesting to a life lived actively. Clint is dragging his hands back and forth across Bucky’s skin, thumbing at his nipples and just looking him over appreciatively when Barnes gets a handful of his hair and tugs his head back, arching his neck up into a completely different kind of kiss, something that’s just this side of dominating, and Clint groans into it, his hands spasming on Bucky’s hips.  

 

Barnes is still kissing him when Clint feels the first tentative press of Bucky’s mouth against his throat and his own shirt being pushed up his chest, exposing his body.  Barnes breaks away so that Clint can raise his back off the bed, clenching his stomach muscles and using the weight of Bucky on his thighs as leverage, and then the shirt is whipped over his head and Barnes is kissing him again.  Bucky’s mouth is on his chest, duplicating everything Clint had done to him in the living room, right down to the teeth on his nipples and scraping across his ribs.

 

And Clint-

 

Clint is the one covered in scars here, he realizes, as Bucky’s thumb traces over the reminder of a stab wound on his side, one he thinks Natasha gave him a very long time ago.

 

“What happened to you?” Bucky murmurs, and it’s the first time in a long time that Clint can remember being self-conscious about his body.

 

“Lotta things,” he rasps, looking up at Barnes instead of down at Bucky.  

 

Barnes - _his_ Bucky - is watching him softly, something warm on his face.

 

Then he says, “But you’re pretty,” like an absolute asshole.

 

“Fuck off,” Clint tells him, grinning, and Barnes’ fist tightens in his hair, until Clint is arching his neck and his back into it.

 

“I’d rather fuck you,” Barnes says, biting at the curve of Clint’s neck where it meets his shoulder.

 

Clint absolutely does not whimper, except for how he kind of does.  “Or that,” he gasps. “We can do that.”

 

Above him, some kind of silent communication is happening, but Clint is already a little bit too far gone to keep up with it, or even to be bothered to try, and then Bucky’s fingers are fumbling at the button on his pants and Clint’s grateful at least that pants still open the same in the past as they do in the future.  Bucky pauses when he gets the pants open and Clint’s honestly not sure if that’s because of the purple striped boxers he’s wearing or because he’s not got a lot of experience with what’s in other men’s pants, and he frankly doesn’t care much. It’s just a brief moment, then Bucky is squeezing him through the thin cotton boxers while Clint makes a strangled sound.  

 

He’d thought, for a brief moment, that he was the one in charge here, but it’s quickly becoming clear how much that is not the case as Barnes is sucking hickeys onto his shoulders and Bucky is wrestling his pants and boxers off.

 

“Why’m I the only one naked?” Clint manages, after a minute, when Barnes’ mouth is otherwise occupied on his chest and Bucky is dragging his blunt nails across Clint’s abs.  

 

Barnes chuckles and finally, finally, lets go of Clint’s hair and leans back, arching to pull his own shirt over his head.  Clint turns to watch, because he’s never once been uninterested in watching his boyfriend get naked, and then he hears the sharp intake of breath from near his feet, and turns to see Bucky staring at the older, harder version of himself in shock.  

 

Clint sits up, fully prepared to intervene as necessary, watching the two of them warily.

 

Bucky takes it all in - Barnes has very few scars, especially compared to Clint right now, but there’s no denying the damage around his shoulder, or the way the matte black metal of the arm is grafted directly onto his shoulder.  It’s painfully obvious that Barnes lost the whole arm somewhere along the way, and Bucky’s gotta be wondering-

 

“Can I touch it?” Bucky says, sitting back on his heels, unconcerned with his own nakedness.

 

“What?” Barnes says, finally caught by surprise.

 

“Your- the arm,” Bucky says, eyes riveted on the way it’s moving so smoothly, so naturally.  Even Clint has caught himself admiring the engineering of the arm, even knowing the history behind it.

 

Barnes holds his hand out wordlessly. Bucky takes it between his palms, turning it over between his palms, watching as the fingers bend and twist between his own.  He runs his hands up the arm to the elbow, feeling the grooves between the plates, the ones that don’t pinch and click the way the old ones did.

 

“Wow,” is all he says, when he’s done, letting Barnes’ hand go and propping his own hands back on his thighs.  “That’s swell.”

 

Clint snorts out a laugh.  “Swell, he says,” Clint nudges his Bucky with his elbow.  “Can I tell Steve your arm’s swell when we get back?”

 

Barnes reaches for him, but Clint dodges out of the way of his grip, grinning.  “Nah, you’ve had your fun, it’s my turn now.” He turns and lunges for Bucky, grabbing him around the waist and rolling until Bucky’s underneath him and Clint gets to have his turn exploring.  He doesn’t waste any time divesting Bucky of his pants, stripping them off with enough haste that he’s worried he’s gonna tear a seam, but Bucky doesn’t object. Underneath he’s wearing shorts that aren’t so different from the boxers Clint’d had on, so he thinks maybe that’s not what made him stop before, and then Clint decides to stop thinking about it at all. He pulls the shorts off and tosses them aside and for all the changes that the serum wrought on Bucky’s body, this is one area that hasn’t changed much at all.  

 

He almost opens his mouth and says as much, before suddenly remembering why that’s a terrible idea, and instead shuts himself up Bucky’s first favorite way-

 

With his dick.  

 

Clint doesn’t waste a whole lotta time with finesse.  Bucky’s hard and ready and flushed at the tip, uncircumcised and a little damp and Clint’s mouth is watering just looking at him, so he just swoops in and swallows Bucky down in one slick glide, swallowing past his own gag reflex.

 

Bucky convulses underneath him, his chest lifting up off the mattresses and his knees bending around Clint’s chest like he’s trying to curl up around Clint in shock.

 

“Christ on a- _fuck_ ,” he manages, breathless and shocked, staring at Clint with wide eyes.  

 

Clint slurps his way back off, breathing hotly on Bucky’s balls and dragging his mouth over his now-wet cock.  “Now you know what you like about me,” Clint says, laughing a little, before he does it again.

 

And again and again, until Bucky’s hands are tangled in his hair and he’s panting and writhing, and Barnes’ hands are running down his spine in long, smooth strokes, the nails of his right hand scraping Clint’s skin.  He wraps his left hand around Clint’s hip and Clint can hear the snick of the travel-sized bottle of lube when Barnes opens it, and then fingers are pressing against him, sliding inside him in perfect familiarity that makes Clint groan around the dick in his mouth.

 

Bucky moans in tandem.

 

Barnes is stretching him leisurely, like they don’t do this often enough for it almost to be unnecessary, Clint rocking back against his hand as he sucks Bucky’s dick down again and again and again, feeling him harden further in his mouth, clearly so, so close-

 

Clint gets pulled off Bucky’s dick by his hair, making a sound that’s half disappointment and half arousal, some kind of cut-off whine.

 

“You’re gonna make him come, sweetheart,” Barnes growls in his ear, still two fingers deep in his ass, and Clint somehow opens his eyes enough to look.  Barnes’ hand drifts from Clint’s hair to sprawl possessively across the middle of his chest.

 

Bucky is sprawled where Clint left him, thighs spread and his cock hard enough that it’s standing almost straight up, flushed and angry looking, and his face is slack with arousal and _want_.

 

Clint moans again.  “That was - _ah!_ \- kind of the point, yeah.”

 

“I thought you might want to fuck him,” Barnes says, conversationally, like he’s not sliding a third finger into Clint’s ass while he writhes against him on his knees.  Clint groans his agreement, sucking in a sharp breath as the idea of it sets his nervous system on fire. He _feels_ his cock twitch.  “Maybe while I fuck you,” Barnes says, twisting his wrist and rubbing at Clint’s prostate so that his knees nearly buckle.  

 

“Oh god,” Clint says, and Bucky’s watching them with his lower lip tucked between his teeth as he idly strokes himself.  

 

Clint holds a hand out, can’t help but notice it’s a little bit shaky and takes a deep breath, only to be destroyed by another perfectly-aimed stroke of Bucky’s fingers.  “Fuck,” he says, emphatically, as his fingers wrap around the small tube Barnes has already made good use of.

 

Barnes takes pity on him, letting Clint go and sliding his hand away, which only emphasizes how very empty Clint feels, but he leans over Bucky to press their mouths together into a hard, biting kiss.  

 

“You catch all that?” he asks, when he pulls back, making sure Bucky is looking at him, making sure Bucky understands what’s going on.  

 

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky tells him, and he’s flushed, with dark-dilated eyes and clearly aroused.

 

“You alright with it?” Clint checks, because Clint has to check.  Consent matters, dammit. “You can say no, I’m happy to let you fuck my mouth until you come, and he can fuck me after.”  Bucky draws in a shuddering breath. “You can watch,” Clint adds, slyly, just to see what his reaction is. _His_ Bucky likes to watch, Clint knows, but he doesn’t know about this Bucky.  

 

That gets him a rolling shiver, but Bucky shakes his head.  “No, I- I want the other.”

 

“You want to get fucked?” Clint’s gonna make sure, even though he’s getting distracted by the sound of Bucky shucking his pants off behind him and the stroke of a warm, calloused hand along his flank.  

 

Bucky nods, biting his lip, and Clint almost wants to make him say it out loud, but he decides to have mercy on him instead.  Hell, this has gotta be hard enough on the guy, no pun intended, and a nod is a kind of yes. It’s not like Clint hasn’t offered him an out.  

 

Barnes’ thumb is teasing at his entrance now, dipping in and out just enough to remind Clint of what he’s missing and how badly he wants Barnes inside of him, so Clint ducks his head again, kissing Bucky slowly, like he’s trying to learn every inch of his mouth, learn exactly what it is he’s in to.  

 

He stretches his neck the same way Barnes does, but he’s a more tentative kisser.  Or maybe he’s just out of his depth here, but either way, it lacks the brutal efficiency of Barnes’ kisses, somehow softer and more pliant, and Clint hadn’t known how much he wanted that until he got it.  He trails his mouth lower, across territory he’s already covered, until he’s hovering over Bucky’s dick, which is dripping precome and throbbing. Clint licks across the head, rough and unexpected, and Bucky’s hips jerk.

 

“Gonna come if you start that up again,” Bucky warns him, sounding shaky.

 

“You won’t,” Clint tells him confidently, and wraps his lips around the head, flicking his tongue along the slit and then under the foreskin that’s pulled nearly all the way back now.  He varies his rhythm and his timing, bobs fast and then slow, always enough to keep Bucky on the edge, and never enough to let him tumble over.

 

When Bucky is cursing and twisting beneath him, Clint opens the lube, squirting more than he probably needs out onto his fingers and lets them trail below Bucky’s balls, drawn tight up against his body, to the opening beneath.  It’s twitching under his fingertips, and Bucky’s thighs tense around his ears.

 

“Relax,” Clint breathes, lifting off of his cock.  “I’m gonna make you feel so good baby,”

 

Bucky snorts a little, but his thighs part a little more and he leans back onto the mattresses, visibly trying to relax.  Clint wonders if he should make him come first, after all, but then Barnes’ fingers are back in his ass, stroking deeply into Clint, slow and firm, dragging across his prostate, and Clint decides he doesn’t have the patience for that, can’t make Bucky come and then wait for him to recover before he gets his dick inside of him.

 

Instead, he swirls his fingertips around that tight whorl of muscle, until Bucky’s thighs spread further and he’s pressing back into the touch and then Clint slides a finger inside of him, testing.   It slides in easily, and Clint crooks his finger, hooking it on the outstroke until Bucky lets out a formless, breathy sound, and then Clint aims for that same spot with every press of his fingers, every twist of his wrist.  He eases a second finger in the same way, letting Bucky adjust to the sensation, prodding at his prostate and tempting him with orgasm, until Clint has three fingers buried inside of him and Bucky is scrabbling at his shoulders and riding his hand.  Clint doesn’t even have his mouth on him anymore, just fucks him with his fingers and watches him edge closer to flying apart.

 

It doesn’t help that Barnes has picked up the pace behind him, because he knows exactly what Clint likes, and what Clint likes is slow and hard and full of deadly accuracy, and Barnes is giving him that in spades, along with the occasional brush of vibranium against his cock and the scrape of teeth along the nape of his neck and Clint is going out of his _goddamn mind_.  

 

Clint crawls up Bucky’s body when he feels like he can’t take it anymore and Bucky probably - finally - can.  He angles his mouth over Bucky’s, which is slack and panting, and he looks dazed, like he can’t fathom that this is happening to him.

 

“Ready?” Clint asks, and if he sounds desperate, it’s because he _is_ \- desperate to bury his cock in Bucky’s body, desperate to get fucked six ways from Sunday, desperate to come in a way he hasn’t felt in years, probably.  

 

Bucky nods wildly, his arms already reaching for Clint’s shoulders to pull him closer.

 

Clint hooks an elbow under Bucky’s knee, then drapes it over his shoulder.  He figures he’s gonna need both his arms in a minute, once he gets between both of them and all rational thought ceases to exist, and it might be smart to have both arms for balance.  He moves to reach for his cock, but Barnes beats him to it, wrapping a lube-slick hand around him and giving a few devastating strokes, and then nudges Clint forward, until he can feel Bucky opening up underneath him so fucking sweetly he could die.

 

“Oh god,” he says, head dropping as he focuses on the sensation of burying himself into the tightest, wettest squeeze.  

 

Bucky makes a small, punched-out sound, Clint snaps his head up to look at him in concern, but his eyes are closed and his mouth is slack with pleasure, and Clint keeps pushing forward, rocking in tiny increments until he’s balls deep and biting back expletives and his own orgasm.  “Okay?” he manages to grit out, holding himself perfectly still.

 

Moaning, Bucky hitches his hips higher, and Clint takes that as a green light.  He pulls back and pushes back in, angling his thrusts to find-

 

“Ah!” Bucky cries, and his leg tightens on Clint’s shoulder as his hands clench into fists.  

 

Clint does it again to get the same reaction, and then he grins.  “Good?” he asks, breathless, like he doesn’t already know the answer, and all Bucky can do is whine in response.  

 

He jolts, a little, when Barnes presses himself up against his back, all hot, naked skin and hotter cock sliding between his cheeks.  Barnes waits until Clint has thrust all the way into Bucky and the he pushes a hand against the small of Clint’s back to hold him in place.  Clint groans, low and wrecked, and Bucky opens his eyes, bleary. He watches Clint’s face - watches whatever happens to it as Barnes fucks his way into Clint in short, sharp thrusts that Bucky has got to be able to feel, the kind of fucking Clint prefers to be on the receiving end of, almost brutally intense.  

 

Oh god, Clint has no idea how to cope with this.  

 

He’s balls deep in the prettiest man he’s ever fucked, being fucked by the same prettiest man who knows exactly how to fuck him to Clint’s preferred expectation and it’s not only possible but actually likely that Clint is going to _literally die_.

 

“Oh fuck,” he says, trembling between them, and then dropping down onto his elbows.  

 

“Nope,” Barnes says, wrapping an arm around his chest and tugging him back up.  “He wanted to watch you fall apart, remember?” He ducks down and sets his teeth into Clint’s shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a bruise and make Clint cry out. “I’m gonna fuck you,” Barnes says, low, almost a whisper in Clint’s ear, “just how you like it, and if he doesn’t come from that, from watching you, then he can fuck your mouth.  How does that sound?”

 

Clint and Bucky make an almost identical sound, something between a whimper and a moan.

 

Barnes keeps his arm - the vibranium one, because he knows how much Clint likes it and because Bucky seems fascinated by it, too - tucked under Clint’s shoulder to hold him up, and then he leans back and proceeds to fuck his brains out.  

 

Every drag of his cock out of Clint pulls Clint along, pulls his own cock out of Bucky, and then every slam of Barnes’ hips back into Clint’s shoves him forward into Bucky, who makes a sharp, wounded noise with every movement.  Clint tries to keep his eyes open, tries to make sure Bucky’s doin’ alright, but he’s arching into the motion, his hands fumbling at both Clint and Barnes, tugging at them, and Clint figures he’ll let them know if it’s not, and gives himself over to the sensation.  

 

Clint’s hands are digging into the bedcovers, clenched in his fists, as he’s assaulted by sensation on both sides.  He can’t think, he can only feel the hot, wet grip of Bucky’s ass on his cock as he slides in and out, can only feel the penetration of Barnes behind him, slamming into his prostate every other thrust, like it’s his sole purpose in life to drive Clint out of his goddamn mind.

 

It’s too much and it’s not enough, and Clint is writhing between them.  He wants to collapse into the sensation, wants to let his shaking arms go slack and his knees give out, but Barnes is holding him up between them, putting him on display for Bucky to see.

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Clint gasps, after a particularly hard thrust makes him see stars.  “Oh god, I’m gonna-”

 

“Gonna keep fuckin’ you if you do,” Barnes informs him, sounding breathless.  

 

Clint lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob, and fumbles, reaching for Bucky’s cock, only to have his hand slapped away by Barnes.  “He doesn’t need any help,” Barnes says, and Clint pries his eyes open, tears stinging at the corners, to look.

 

Bucky is arching into the motion of their bodies, the muscles in his chest and arms standing out - boxing, Clint suddenly remembers, incongruous and wildly unimportant, Bucky is a boxer - as he strains towards climax, his cock leaking all over his own stomach and his balls drawn up tight.  

 

“Oh god, _please_ ,” Clint says, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking to Bucky or Barnes, or actual, literal god, but Bucky makes a gasping little sound, something quiet and stuck in his throat and it sounds exactly like the time Clint blew Barnes in an alley after a mission when they were trying to keep quiet-

 

Bucky comes all over himself and Clint too, and the rhythmic clenching of his body drags Clint with him, to the edge of the cliff he’s been hovering on and then over, climax unfurling in his gut in hot, sweeping waves as he chokes on air and his body jerks reflexively against the hold Barnes has on him.  

 

Barnes doesn’t let go though, doesn’t let Clint collapse, just keeps fucking him, exactly like he’d promised, like the oversensitivity and the twitching little whines Clint is making don’t even matter-

 

And they don’t because long experience has taught them both that Clint fucking _loves_ it, loves being fucked through orgasm and out the other side, until he’s shaking with it.  Barnes keeps up his steady pace while Clint gasps and writhes, and then he lets go, lets Clint slump onto Bucky with his ass in the air, and Bucky wraps his arms around him while he hiccups into his shoulder and pretends the moisture on his face is sweat and not overstimulated tears.

 

Barnes only manages a few more thrusts before he lets out a low, satisfied groan and shudders to a stop, gasping for air, and running a soothing hand up and down Clint’s spine.  

 

When Clint’s finally coming down from the high, when the shivers in his spine have settled and all he feels is lax and sated, Barnes carefully, gently pulls away, falling to the side on the abused bedding and taking a deep breath.  He gets a hand on Clint’s hip and eases him away from Bucky, tucking him into Barnes’ body like they do at home, pressed close together where Clint can feel Barnes’ heartbeat - strong and steady - against his back. Clint reaches out in turn and pulls Bucky closer, so the line of his body is pressed up against Clint’s and Clint can throw his leg over Bucky’s thighs, keeping him close.  

 

“The future must be pretty fuckin’ swell,” Bucky says, after a while, and Clint chokes down a laugh.

 

“Fuckin’ christ,” Barnes mutters into the back of Clint’s neck.  

 

“You’re sure Stevie’s not comin’ back tonight right?” Bucky asks, raising up enough to look at Barnes over Clint’s shoulder.  “Cos if I couldn’t explain this shit to him before, I sure as _hell_ can’t explain it to him now.”

 

Clint is now completely unable to hold in his laughter, and it’s shaking both his bedpartners with its intensity as he tries to keep quiet.  

 

“Oh my god,” he says, near tears for entirely different reasons.  “Oh my _god_.”

 

All he can think of is the months of traumatizing Steve they’ve done, between post-mission BJs, semi-public wall sex, and that one time on the Quinjet.  

 

“Stevie’ll sort his shit out,” Barnes growls.  “Stop worryin’ about him so goddamn much.”

 

Bucky blinks at him, all the humor gone from his face as he seems to contemplate Barnes’ words and then take them at face value, giving him a hesitant sort of nod.  “Yeah, I guess you’d know, huh?”

 

He lays back down, staring quietly at the ceiling and allows himself to be held.

 

**

 

The stew Barnes had left simmering on the stove is delicious, when they finally manage to drag on enough clothes to go eat it.

 

**

 

Barnes’ smooth cheeks between Clint’s thighs is a goddamn _revelation_.

 

**

 

The knock in the quiet, pre-dawn hours is not as unexpected as it should be, when Barnes shakes Clint awake.  Bucky follows them, half-dressed and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Natasha, standing on the other side of the door in her usual form-fitting suit, isn’t much of a surprise either.

 

“Hello boys,” she purrs, sauntering into the little apartment and looking around with interest.  She gives Bucky a once-over that makes him blush, though that might be the lack of pants and the hickeys all down his throat.  “I see you found a way to keep yourselves occupied.”

 

Clint groans.  He’s never, ever going to live this down.  

 

“Let’s go,” she says, jerking her chin.  “Strange has got a portal all set up around the corner to bring you back, safe and sound.  Interesting that he seemed to know exactly where to find you.”

 

Barnes rolls his eyes, but he gives Bucky a sloppy little salute and a filthy smirk and follows her out the door.  Clint turns, cocking his head at Bucky who looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what it is. Clint leans in, kisses him - something soft and sweet, a _see you later_ instead of a _goodbye_.

 

“See you soon babe,” he breathes, and then he walks away.

 

Time is relative, after all.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sara Holmes for the wonderful cheerleading <3 I can't believe this is the absurdity I asked you to read, god I'm so sorry. 
> 
> And thanks to Steph - whose FAULT THIS WAS - for beta reading it on the fly at the last minute and fixing my commas, my tenses, and my low self-esteem. Love you bby.


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